There were a few mentions of the pirates and how, for many years, people still believed there might be buried treasure on the island. Taryn stopped, looked up, and grinned at that part.
How awesome would that be, she thought to herself, remembering that not everyone needed to hear her ruminations.
When she finally got to the part about the millionaires and the Jekyll Island Club Hotel she made sure to pay careful attention.
The images of the cottages in their prime were enjoyable and fascinating, but she’d already seen those. Of more interest now were the descriptions of how the men and women spent their leisure time on the island and these accounts provided some amusing insights to a world Taryn couldn’t even fathom.
Taryn’s parents were successful, but nothing more than upper middle class (although her mother, at least, took great pleasure in the “upper” part of that). In their prime her grandparents had been working class people who squirreled away money all their lives to buy the old farm house and acreage outside of Nashville they loved so much.
Taryn herself often scrambled to make her miserly bills and lived on a budget that she almost always had to be creative with. She couldn’t imagine taking a month or more off at a time to jaunt down to her private island to sit on the porch of her mansion (er, “cottage”). Spending all day drinking alcohol, playing cards, and gossiping with her lady friends while her husband had animals shipped in to hunt.
Although, to be clear, she wasn’t opposed to giving it a try.
It didn’t take long to get to the fire.
“William Hawkins was instantaneously accused of creating the fire that killed not only his young wife Rachel, but more than forty of the hotel guests on New Year’s Eve.
Hawkins was discovered with traces of accelerant on his clothing and was witnessed running down the hallway from the room he shared with his wife shortly before the rest of the floor burst into flames.
Throughout the trial Hawkins did not move to offer an alibi of any kind, other than to consistently declare he’d been outside on the grounds “enjoying the night air”.
By reports from other witnesses at the celebration, Rachel Hawkins had retired early from the evening’s entertainment and it was speculated that he had joined her in their rooms where an argument ensued. One of the most critical pieces of evidence came from the testimony of a Mrs. Lucinda Moorer who was housed in a suite of rooms across the corridor from the Hawkins’ and testified that moments before smoke filled the floor she heard Rachel Hawkins “crying and whimpering.”
Hawkins was incarcerated in the Brunswick jail for six months before his trial began. According to Juniper Willis, guard, Hawkins only made two requests during his incarceration–to visit his late wife’s gravesite and to keep his family Bible in his cell at all times. Both requests were honored. Hawkins had one visitor during his incarceration, a member of the Jekyll Island Club. He was found guilty after only two hours of deliberation. He was hanged three days later at the gallows which is now the site of…”
Taryn stopped reading then and looked up from the book.
Huh, she thought, why wouldn’t he have tried to at least make up some sort of solid alibi?
Seemed odd to her, especially since he knew he’d probably be hung. Hell, they were rich. He probably could’ve paid someone off to vouch for him.
Taking everything she’d read and what she knew about human behavior into consideration, Taryn felt like the case was pretty much closed. He probably was guilty. No miscarriage of justice there, except for the party goers who had died in the fire. Yikes. If there was one thing Taryn had learned it was that people did crazy things for crazy reasons all the damn time.
The book went on for several more pages. It spent a little more time talking about William, Rachel, the monetary damage the fire caused, and the rebuilding. Although it was all interesting and she knew she could read for hours, she closed the book and stood and stretched.
She’d found what she wanted. Now she had work to do.
It was dark by the time she finished. Without any interruptions from tourists or other employees she’d worked steadily all afternoon, getting more accomplished than she usually did. It was only in the high eighties that day as well and the humidity hadn’t been terrible. It was much easier to work when she wasn’t worried about sweat running down into her eyes or dying of heat stroke.
As the last few drops of sunset faded into the dark sky she loaded the rest of her supplies into the golf cart and took off. Ivy House had been quiet all day. She hadn’t felt any niceties oozing from it but she didn’t feel like it wanted to open its mouth and swallow her whole, either, so that was a start.
When she got to the part of the road where she’d usually turn right to head to her house, she continued straight, heading towards the north end of the island. There was a small cemetery there, the one where Rachel was buried, and the ghost story the server told her had been weighing on her mind.
North Riverview Road was eerily quiet, deserted and isolated as it usually felt away from the hotels when it was dark. There were never many people out on it at night. The longer she drove, the more she second guessed her intentions.
“Don’t be a wuss,” she chided herself when the shadow from a tree made her jump in her seat. “If people can go out bike riding at night you can skirt along in a golf cart.”
As she neared the shell of the Horton House, she slowed down and pulled over to the side. The one lonely streetlamp did little to brighten her surroundings and, if anything, made the small woods around her even darker. Rummaging in her knapsack she fished out the small flashlight Matt had bought her a few months earlier.
“If you’re going to be traipsing around spooky places after dark then you at least need some good light,” he’d complained after handing it to her.
And, in typical Matt fashion, he had diligently researched flashlights for at least a week online before picking out the right one for her. Not only was it rechargeable, have a power beam, and doubled as a screwdriver–it was also bright pink.
Now she turned it on and sprinted across the road to the small cemetery that lay just beyond the tree line. She’d driven past it a time or two and had seen the headstones rising from the ground but hadn’t yet explored it.
“You’re nuttier than a fruitcake,” she lectured herself as she disappeared into the shadowy canopy. “Can’t you ever do anything strange in the daytime? You’re worse than the Scooby Doo people.”
But she wasn’t truly frightened. Taryn liked cemeteries. She thought they were peaceful and comforting. Even as a child she’d enjoyed wandering around the graves, careful not to step on anyone and to act in a respectful manner as she read the inscriptions and ran her fingers over the smooth stones.
The tiny area was enclosed by a tabby wall that came up to her chest. The black wrought iron gate was open so she slipped through and entered quietly. When the gate closed firmly behind her, the sound of metal on stone had her jumping, nearly dropping her flashlight.
“Jesus!” she shouted and then cackled at her skittishness. “Some ghost hunter I am.”
It was hilarious that the people on the internet were starting to think of her as this tough paranormal expert who, in their minds, investigated old houses and walked around a la Nancy Drew solving mysteries. A week didn’t go by where she didn’t get an email from someone asking her to poke around their haunted house.
In reality, Taryn was afraid of the dark and about as jumpy as they came. To be fair, thanks to the insane things that had happened to her over the past year, she was starting to think of her life and jobs in terms of book titles: Taryn and the Mystery of the Old Farm House, Taryn and the Mystery of Shaker Village, Taryn and the Mystery of the Missing Girl…
It gave her something to do on long car rides.
It only took a couple of seconds to find Rachel’s grave; there were only a few. As she knelt down beside it, the flashlight balanced on her knee, she read aloud the words written in stone:
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“there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light: and they shall reign for ever and ever”
Taryn sat back on her heels and chewed on her bottom lip. Frankly, considering how the poor woman had died, she found the Revelations quote to be in poor taste. Wasn’t she meant to have died because she burned to death?
Taryn wasn’t completely sure why she was even there. Adena Cottage had nothing to do with William and Rachel. Their story was closed. He’d started the fire to cover her murder and he’d paid for it. Justice was served. Adena had belonged to Georgiana and her father. She’d found no connection between that cottage, that family, and the hotel fire.
Besides, as she continued to find out, there were lots of stories about the island. She could be connecting to any number of them.
Shaking her head, Taryn started to stand but as she was rising to her feet she paused, all of her senses on high alert. The only sounds were that of crickets and some obnoxiously loud tree frogs. How something so little could make suck a racket was beyond her. And yet…
Taryn had the distinct feeling that she wasn’t alone. She continued to straighten, keeping her flashlight trained on the ground at her feet. There was no movement in the darkness, so no sound of footsteps, no cars on the road behind her, yet Taryn knew someone else was there with her. It was a prickling at the back of her skull, a faint rash of coldness that seeped down her neck and into the top of her shirt.
Without turning, Taryn closed her eyes and tightened her grip on the small flashlight. “Hello?” she asked quietly, struggling to keep her voice steady. Her instinct was to make a mad dash to her golf cart and get out of there as quickly as possible.
Whatever was behind her crept closer, its icy hand closing over her left shoulder. Taryn felt the weight if not the solidity of the appendage. Then, as though it had the weight of the world on its shoulder, an enormous sigh pervaded the air around her, a sound tinged with disappointment, longing, and frustration.
Taryn bit back a scream and willed herself not to pass out.
What had to be only milliseconds later, the weight of the hand was lifted and she knew that she was alone again. The last thing she saw before she fled from the enclosure and raced across the darkened road was the faint glow on the ground by the headstone, just the size of a small candle.
Chapter 11
Taryn read through the letter three times before picking up the phone and calling Matt.
She’d had a night full of bad dreams again. Once again she’d been in a locked room, dark and dusty and cramped. A small beam of light had shone through a tiny hole but the miniature ray was only enough to be mocking. She’d thrown herself against the sides that closed in around her and cried, scratching at the wood until she felt her fingernails break and her fingers bleed. Nobody had come to help her.
When she’d finally woken up, drenched in sweat, she’d turned on every light in the house. Then she’d sat in the living room for hours, just flipping through the television stations, one channel after another.
And then the letter came.
Matt picked up on the second ring.
“Hello?” Taryn thought he sounded distracted. She figured she must have caught him on his way out the door and felt guilty about bothering him with more of her problems.
“Hey, you got a minute?” she asked.
“Yes, for you. What’s up my queen?” As a child she’d pretended she was the Queen of Sweden, having no authority on the Swedish royal family, or if there even was one at all.
“I got a letter from that attorney up in New Hampshire,” she replied. “Aunt Sarah’s house?”
“Everything okay?”
Taryn sighed; the piece of paper still caught between her fingers. “There was a storm and some damage from trees. He gave me an estimate to have it fixed, but I can’t afford it. I don’t have any money. I don’t know that I will ever have that kind of money.”
“How much do you need? I’ve got some,” Matt replied casually.
Taryn was mortified. “Good Lord, Matt, I wasn’t calling you for money. To be honest, I thought I might want to just go ahead and sell it. I can’t get it fixed and I don’t want to let it sit there and fall into ruin.”
The idea made her miserable, though. She’d loved her aunt, possibly one of the only people in her family who’d ever understood her, other than her grandmother. Sarah had been a bit of an enigma. She was her mother’s sister, a woman who rarely socialized and lived in her big old farm house alone in the “New Hampshire wilderness,” as Taryn’s father referred to it. Taryn hadn’t seen her in years but had fond memories of visiting her aunt as a child. She’d meant to return as an adult but put it off year after year until she’d received the letter from the attorney, informing her of her aunt’s death and how she was sole inheritor.
Sarah had died a year ago, but Taryn still hadn’t been up to the house. A property manager was taking care of it and it had been winterized while vacant. Now she knew it was time to do something about the place, though. The idea of letting it go, of having nothing of her family’s that belonged to her, bothered Taryn greatly. No bank in their right mind was going to lend her any money with the kind of job she had, though, so a loan was most certainly out. The only thing she owned was her car and it was on its last legs, so to speak.
“Let me think about it,” Matt said at last. “I might be able to come up with something.”
“I think I should go up there and at least look at it,” Taryn replied. “See what all has happened to it myself. Maybe it’s not as bad as he made it out to be.”
“I think it would be good for you to visit her house and get some closure,” he agreed.
Taryn realized with a start that she desperately needed that connection with her family. It was ironic that she spent her time chasing ghosts and visiting graves of people she’d never known and yet had done virtually nothing about her own family member’s passing.
“I’ll look at some airline tickets and see if I can’t take some time off,” she replied. “You want to fly up there with me?”
“It depends on when you go,” Matt said. “We’re kind of knee deep in this project at the moment, and I just don’t want to go off and leave my students right now. They have a good grasp of what we’re doing but they’re not there quite yet–not where I’m comfortable with them being.”
Taryn had to laugh to herself. Matt’s “students” were only a year or two younger than him and yet he’d always acted older and wiser than everyone else. It was both charming and annoying.
“I’ll call you later,” she said. “I’ve got to get out of the house for a little while and try to work. I think I’m going to be done in about two weeks if all goes well.”
“Alright. I’ll be here. I love you!” he sang cheerfully.
“Um, you too,” she replied awkwardly.
Matt, not caring so much how she said it as long as she did, happily hung up on his end.
Taryn had never been great at telling anyone how she felt. Her parents were aloof and distant when they were alive and for the majority of the time her connection with her grandmother had allowed them to communicate without the use of words. Now, twisting the ring on her finger that belonged to the woman who’d mostly raised her, Taryn could feel her eyes swimming with tears.
“I wish you were still here,” she murmured aloud the words that she thought at least a dozen times a day.
Ivy House was starting to accept her, Taryn firmly believed it. It might not be rolling out the “Welcome” mat for her, but it wasn’t slamming doors or breaking glass in her direction anymore and that was an improvement.
“So what’s your secret?” she asked loudly, dipping her brush into a smudge of blue on her palette. “What do you guys want from me?”
“Are you talking to your paint or your canvas?”
Taryn recognized David’s voice at once and looked up and smiled. He moved with an almost unnatura
l grace, light as a feather despite his height and muscles.
“To whatever will answer me I guess,” Taryn replied, smiling.
David walked up to her and studied her work. “Nice! You do have a talent for this.”
“Well, that’s why they pay me the big bucks,” she joked. “So what brings you here?”
“Just trying to walk off some steam,” he replied, shaking his head.
She could see the flashes of frustration in his eyes and winced. “Bad day?” she asked sympathetically, thinking of the attorney’s letter.
“I don’t know. You at a stopping point or anything? I could use a friendly ear.”
She really wasn’t at a “stopping point” but had so few friends that she hated to turn down a request for something that might momentarily offer her companionship, even if it was artificial.
It took her a few minutes to wrap everything up and cover her canvas but soon they were walking along the path by the river, dodging bicycles and sweltering tourists.
“So what’s up?” Taryn asked when they came to a bench and he motioned her to sit. The marsh spread out before them, lush and green. Once again Taryn was struck by the vividness of everything on the island.
“I had that meeting with the project manager that I was telling you about,” David began.
“And I’m assuming that it didn’t go well?” Taryn prodded.
David shrugged and swept back his long hair until it fell down behind them, nearly touching the ground. “It should have. He said all the right things, acted in all the right ways…”
“But you don’t believe him.”
David exhaled loudly, his brow furrowing in deep lines. “Not in the slightest. Most of these companies? They don’t care about the history, about what they might be uncovering or disturbing. Sure, they make their donations to the museums, usually just for the big tax write-offs, and claim to be environmentalists or whatever but…I don’t know. You know those sea turtle signs you see all around here and how they tell us not to bother the eggs?”
Jekyll Island: A Paranormal Mystery (Taryn's Camera Book 5) Page 9